In a dark and mist-soaked night, he lay on the ground with his hands and knees torn open…
His body could no longer endure the brutal conditions he worked under.
Inside the tiny barrack he lived in—barely the size of a latrine—he slowly pushed himself upright.
The redness in his sleepless eyes, which hadn't touched rest in days, reflected faintly in the puddle formed on the floor by the water dripping from the rotting ceiling.
As a slave living in a small shed in the king's garden, he was grateful to even have a roof over his head.
He stopped.
He thought…
For someone whose only remaining comfort was the nearness of death, he was thinking far too much.
The gods…
He raised his hands to the heavens and quietly fell to his knees.
The weight of the agony inside him was enough to draw the attention of the divine.
The Demi-God Kharthis descended to the mortal plane.
He approached the shack with slow yet forceful steps;
his silhouette slid into the room through the broken window.
The slave's eyes were shut—he didn't even have the strength to keep his head upright while kneeling.
Kharthis drew closer, so close that his breath brushed across the slave's earth-hardened, time-worn skin.
The slave's awareness had dulled from misery;
he felt the sharp stone in his hand, the makeshift blade he had clutched.
He knew if he hesitated a second time he would regret it,
yet he had no strength left to act.
The moment he lifted it, Kharthis entered the shack—
and he caught the slave just as the stone blade grazed the throat.
But the blood pouring from the deep cut on the slave's neck…
wasn't his.
Kharthis staggered, collapsing to the floor.
His form began to crumble into ash.
The slave's blood surged violently in his veins, swollen and burning.
His heart felt too heavy for his body, as if he were suddenly five times his weight.
A cursed scent filled his nose—the scent of a Demi-God's death.
Kharthis's ashes dispersed into the air.
The slave stood, limping, struggling toward the door.
He stepped outside into a freezing, pitch-black night.
He didn't know what to do.
He was hurting—Kharthis's blood no longer fit inside his veins.
Walking barefoot through the fields, he searched desperately for a stray rat or even a seed to distract his stomach.
He knew it was hopeless, but he kept walking.
He began to walk faster.
The torn cloth barely hanging over his shoulders did nothing against the cold.
He felt as if he needed to move—needed to keep going—or he would burst.
He wanted to tear his own eyes out.
A sharp scream escaped him;
perhaps it would be his last.
His cold-numbed, purpled feet sank into a swamp.
He felt nothing except the bone of his ankle with each step.
When his foot caught on something, he fell forward.
The only thing keeping him conscious was the adrenaline of having escaped death
and the confusion of not understanding what had just happened.
He had nothing else.
Among the tall wheat of the field, a silhouette emerged.
A Vixen.
She had followed the corpse-like stench of the nearly dead slave.
She didn't wait for him to die.
She approached slowly.
The slave noticed the Vixen and, in one last attempt at life, began to crawl away with his arms—
his legs were completely numb.
The Vixen chased him like a predator, growing closer and closer.
The slave turned, and with eyes clouded by fear and agony, looked directly into hers.
In that moment, time seemed to stop.
With a single moment of eye contact, the Vixen halted her chase.
She did not know why—but she felt it.
This was the soul of the Demi-God Kharthis.
When the slave died, a part of Kharthis's soul had slipped into him while attempting to seize control.
Vixens
"Vixens are half-human, half-fox beings. Some are predatory, but others speak human tongues and walk among society."
Demi-God Kharthis
"Kharthis possesses the ability to access and influence the will of those whose eyes he meets."
Demi-Gods
"There are many demi-gods, and they are common within the Upper Realm—the realm of the gods.
Each possesses unique and formidable abilities, and strategies are shaped around these powers.
The strength of a demi-god depends on the divine lineage they descend from,
and the greater the power used, the heavier the price paid—
a necessity for the balance of the cosmos.
Explanation:
The merging of a demi-god's essence with that of a mortal is normally impossible and far outside natural order.
But rare exceptions exist—ancient loopholes older even than the written laws themselves."
The outside was so dark they could barely see each other.
After a while, the unconscious slave slowly opened his eyes.
Vixen was still motionless.
The slave looked around, then down at his own body.
His wounds no longer burned like before; they were beginning to heal.
But the cold still froze his feet and fingers—he could hardly move them.
He sat up slowly, leaning his back against a rock.
He wondered what to do.
He had escaped slavery, yet had nothing left in the world to hold onto.
His eyes filled with tears; his muscles trembled with cold and fear.
Then he heard a faint rustle—the sound of Vixen's breath.
He couldn't run; he couldn't even stand.
So he stayed where he was, waiting for whatever fate decided to bring.
Vixen finally began to regain consciousness.
The influence of Kharthis's spirit had weakened, though her head was still spinning.
As the sun began to rise, her gaze fell on the slave.
She remembered the night before…
But then a smell—stronger than anything she had sensed before—hit her.
She turned toward the source hesitantly.
The scent intensified.
And there he was—the slave—still sitting beneath the rock.
Impossible.
Hours ago there had been no such scent.
Why now? What had changed?
The slave's breathing was heavy as he noticed Vixen approaching.
He tried to avert his eyes, but his body was still numb from the cold.
Vixen's ears twitched softly.
A shiver ran under her skin; her fur bristled.
The slave slowly looked into Vixen's eyes;
Vixen continued to approach, hesitating.
The scent of a Demi-God grew sharper.
She now knew he was half—half Demi-God.
Yet she did not fear him—
and that unsettled her more than anything.
The sun rose; a gentle warmth seeped into their exhausted bodies.
Vixen and the slave locked eyes.
The strange mix of fear and security held firm.
The slave whispered,
"Don't hurt me."
Vixen replied,
"What are you?"
The slave took a deep breath.
"That's something I need to learn first."
The air warmed.
The slave could finally wiggle his fingers and toes, though only slightly.
He stood, stretching his legs by placing his feet parallel to the rock he had been leaning on.
Once he could walk, he turned around and felt the dawn wind sweep across the endless-looking field.
Vixen watched him from behind.
Where would he go?
What would he do?
Finally, she asked softly—without expecting an answer:
Vixen:
"So… what happens now?
We both need a way out."
Slave:
"Instead of finding a place I belong… I will create one."
They both agreed on one thing:
they had to leave this place.
Vixen felt a warmth inside her.
The slave added,
"A place where I belong—and the people who belong with me."
He began walking toward the horizon, and Vixen followed.
They walked straight, with no path.
The slave didn't know the way to the city, but travelers and miners sometimes passed along the rough dirt road beyond the fields.
They could trail behind one of them.
They walked through the maze-like fields for nearly forty minutes—
and finally reached the road.